Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle

by Scarlett Scott

  Somehow, Benedict knew she was there. He was deliberately avoiding calling her by name in an effort to salvage what remained of her reputation.

  Duncan kissed her cheek once more. “I am sorry, angel. So very sorry.”

  Then his arms slid away from her, his strength and solidity leaving. She was bereft. Alone. Impossibly cold. She turned to face him, hugging her middle, watching warily as he strode to the door. Why had he apologized?

  *

  Why the hell had Hazlitt set the Marquess of Blanden upon him so soon?

  Duncan reached the door to the sound of her brother’s irate pounding and escalating threats. He had not yet been ready to say his farewell to her. To let her go. And now, he had no choice.

  He must.

  With the sinking weight of sick dread in his gut, he unlatched the door. Blanden stood in the hall, fist raised for another round of furious knocking. He hardened his expression, banishing all emotion, all thoughts, save one: his mother’s broken body. He could do this for her. He owed her this.

  “Ah,” he drawled. “The real Blanden has arrived at last.”

  “There is no other,” the marquess snapped, rudely attempting to shove Duncan out of the doorway.

  He held firm. He was taller, broader, stronger, and a hell of a lot more determined than his lordship. “I do beg your pardon, my lord, for there has indeed been another Marquess of Blanden here at my club nearly every evening for the last sennight. Though he claimed to be you, I saw through his ruse instantly.”

  “Are you mad or soused, Kirkwood?” Blanden demanded, his tone sizzling with rancor. “I fail to follow your lunatic ravings.”

  “Neither, more’s the pity.” He sneered, looking over the marquess’s shoulder to where Hazlitt stood sentry.

  His man of business’s countenance was grim and disapproving. Duncan gave him a nod, indicating he could leave his post. The marquess, in addition to being boring as a stick, was as weak as a stripling. Duncan would mercilessly crush him in any match of fisticuffs. Hazlitt gave him a meaningful look before bowing and silently departing.

  “I demand entrance to this chamber at once,” the marquess was ordering.

  “Benedict, you must calm yourself.” The quiet, husky voice—the voice that had not long ago wept his name with pleasure—interrupted the impasse. She drew alongside him, pressing a hand to his coat sleeve, her gaze on his part beseeching, part questioning.

  Her eyes slayed him. She was so damned beautiful, a black-haired angel he could not keep. He was not a man given to sentiment, but in that moment, something inside him, a fragile piece of himself he had not realized yet existed, broke into ten thousand tiny, splintered fragments.

  He wanted to reassure her. To tell her all could be explained. But he could not lie. Could not bear to hurt her any more than he already would.

  “Explain what you are doing here, my lady,” growled Blanden, attempting once more to launch himself into the chamber.

  Duncan deflected him with ease, his eyes only for Frederica. “Your faith in me was your downfall, my lady,” he warned softly.

  “Duncan.” She gripped him harder, tears swimming in the brilliant depths of her gaze, as if she were drowning in the sea and he was the last bit of flotsam to which she could cling. “What is the meaning of this?”

  He shook his head. He was not her flotsam. He was not her anything, except for the first man who had known her. Gritting his teeth against the knowledge he was her first but another would be her last, he tamped down the bile and forced himself to speak.

  “I arranged for his lordship to be informed of your whereabouts. He has come, I would gather, to take you home where you belong.” Coldly, Duncan turned back to the marquess. “Is that not accurate, Blanden?”

  “What the devil is she doing here with you?” His lordship once more threw himself at Duncan with a violent savagery that took him by surprise. “If you have harmed my sister, I will challenge you to pistols at dawn.”

  “Ah.” He forced his lips to stretch into a wolfish grin, one that was unrepentant. One that said more than his word possibly could. “I did not hurt her. Did I, m’lady?”

  He turned back to Frederica, who looked stricken. The expression on her face was akin to a booted foot to the gut. “Of course you did not hurt me. Not yet.”

  She was intelligent, his angel. It was one of the many traits he admired about her. Her boldness, her unassailable curiosity, her determination, her fearlessness. Her mind. He had read the manuscript page she had left behind in his office, a treasure he could not bear to forfeit. Her talent was undeniable.

  She knew now what was about to unfold. He could read the devastated acceptance in her eyes. In her voice.

  “Not yet,” he agreed softly, regret slithering through him like a deadly serpent. He turned back to the marquess, whose complexion had gone mottled and red in his outrage. “You may enter now, my lord, but only if you promise to behave. I will not have upset or violence in my club.”

  Blanden’s lip curled. “Your club will be a smoking wasteland of ash and greed by the time I am finished with you, Kirkwood.”

  “You will eat those words, Blanden,” he promised with deadly menace, stepping away from the threshold and away from Frederica, too, as if she was not everything he craved, everything he wanted and needed. As if she was not necessary to him.

  Blanden stormed into the chamber, slamming the door at his back, stalking toward Duncan. Duncan recognized himself in the marquess in that moment: bitter, angry, needing to draw blood.

  “Benedict, please.” Frederica rushed forward, grabbing her brother’s arm and staying him when he would have been foolish enough to continue forward, intent upon delivering a blow, Duncan had no doubt. “I beg you, do not make this untenable situation any more difficult than it already is.”

  He hated himself for the hitch in her voice, almost undetectable. Caused by him.

  “You will accomplish nothing with fists, Blanden.” He adopted a cool air he little felt, making himself recall what he truly wanted, more than anything. What he had almost lost sight of, so caught up in her. It was not Frederica’s soft skin or supple lips or the perfect way her body gripped and welcomed his. It was not anything he felt for her. Not stolen kisses or him on his knees, worshipping her as she deserved. It was none of those things.

  It was avenging his mother.

  The way she had looked that awful day returned to him: bruises on her neck, the broken, awkward splaying of her limbs. He would always wonder how painful her end had been. How many times had she been hurt before the last time? His mother had suffered to give him the best life she could afford, and how was he repaying her? By losing his head over the means by which he could at long last procure vengeance?

  Nay. He could not grow weak now. Not with the promise of revenge in clear, beguiling sight.

  “I will accomplish splitting open your smug face.” Frederica’s brother shook her off and stalked forward, nostrils flared, dark eyes almost obsidian. He resembled nothing so much as a bull on the rampage. “That will be enough.”

  Lord Blanden did not seem the sort who would pull a blade or a pistol from his coat, but one could never be too certain. Duncan had once been shot by a man old enough to be his grandfather whilst at the green baize. He still bore the scar and the memory that anyone—regardless of how harmless he or she may seem—was a danger to him.

  Either way, he was not afraid of the marquess and dodged the young lord with ease. “I do not recommend causing harm to my person in any fashion, my lord, as you will not like the consequences. As it is, I already have enough damning information to destroy your sister. I would hate to have to not only reveal everything I know but to beat you to within an inch of your life as well.”

  The marquess roared, but Duncan’s words did have a staying effect upon him. As did Frederica, who rushed forward once more, placing a calming hand upon her brother’s arm. Mere minutes ago, Duncan had been the recipient of that calming touch, and she had
stood by his side. Here was a visceral, brutal reminder of the changing of allegiance between them. In this war, he stood on one side, and she would necessarily stand on the other.

  “I beg of you, Benedict, stop this madness,” she said with quiet persistence. “I alone am at fault for what has transpired here, and I will not have you suffering for my sins.”

  “Do you not wish to know who the pretender is, my lord?” he forced himself to ask. “Are you not curious about the identity of the other Lord Blanden, the one who has been present here at my club, alone with me? The Lord Blanden I have personally escorted to the scarlet chamber?”

  Frederica’s gaze swung back to Duncan, and he could not help but note the lone tear that had trickled down her cheek. The cheek he had kissed not long ago. “He is speaking of me, Benedict. I…I found some of your old coats, breeches, and shoes. I disguised myself as a gentleman and pretended to be you so I could gain entrance here.”

  “Damn it, Frederica!” Blanden’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing in the chamber. “Why would you do such a witless thing?”

  “I was conducting research for The Silent Baron.” Her voice sounded small. Laden with regret.

  Duncan hated himself more than he ever had.

  “Father forbid you from writing that claptrap, Frederica.”

  The marquess’s pronouncement, issued in such a snide, dismissive tone, had Duncan starting forward rethinking his intentions to avoid bloodying the whelp’s nose. “You will apologize to the lady, or I will take great delight in splitting open your face.”

  Blanden’s eyes shot back to Duncan. “You dare to threaten me after you issue threats of ruining my sister and had her cloistered here in your chamber against her will? You have gall, Kirkwood. Do you truly think you can ruin the daughter to the Duke of Westlake without repercussions? One word from me, and every last one of your patrons would desert your black hide. Have no fear of that.”

  Duncan was not frightened of the blustering of one arrogant lord. He took another step forward, challenging Blanden. He grinned. “On the contrary, my lord. One word from you, and everyone will know your sister has lost her innocence to me. Is that what you truly wish?”

  Frederica rushed between them, her skirts rustling. The scent of violets assailed him. Hell, he could even taste her. She had been so responsive, all silken heat, all for him. He could have her a hundred thousand times and it would never be enough. But Lady Frederica Isling and his inconvenient, irrefutable attraction to her was not what this moment was about.

  Rather, this moment was about vengeance.

  It was about at long last delivering the death knell to the man whose indifference and cruelty had left Duncan and his mother to the miserable fate awaiting them, nary a backward glance. That was the thing about power and wealth, those who possessed it easily forgot how temporary it was, how quickly they could lose it. One card game. One poor investment. One night of wagers.

  He had seen men gain and lose fortunes in hours.

  No one knew better than Duncan just how much could be lost in the span of hours, minutes, seconds. Everything. Everything could be lost. He had lost his mother in much the same manner. Sent off for a bun, a pat on the head before he left. Returned to a corpse. Less than half-an-hour between his mother, rosy-cheeked with life and his mother, cold and dead on the floor.

  “Please, Duncan, do not do whatever it is you are intent upon doing,” Frederica implored. Her gaze searched his.

  Duncan ground his jaw. “He has yet to offer you his apology.”

  “You cannot order me about, Kirkwood,” the marquess spat.

  He opened and closed his fists, testing his knuckles. A great deal of time had passed since he had last engaged in boxing, but he would gladly do so again if it meant getting the apology Frederica deserved. “You will apologize for dismissing Lady Frederica’s novel, or I will bloody your nose.”

  “Do not dare to tell me how to speak, you gutter-born mongrel.” The marquess snapped back, fearless.

  The stupid sod ought to have known he had arrived at a duel where he would be outgunned and overpowered, left bleeding in the dirt. And yet, he continued on. Ignoring Frederica’s wild eyes and flailing hands, he grabbed Blanden’s cravat, giving it a threatening yank, uncaring she stood between them, a wide-eyed human wall attempting to keep her brother and her lover from decimating each other.

  He made certain the marquess was meeting his gaze. “Apologize to your sister, my lord. As it is, I have precious little patience for you, given you are nothing more than a means to a desired end. Test me once more, and I cannot promise you will leave here with all your teeth.”

  “Duncan, please!” Lady Frederica’s soft admonishment roused him from the bloodlust that had begun consuming him. For a moment, he had been thrown back to the days where he had fought and bled for his survival. When it had been an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. “Do not hurt him, I beg you.”

  What could he do in the face of her gentle pleading on her brother’s behalf? She knew he would decimate the marquess just as well as he did. Grinding his jaw, Duncan took a step in retreat, putting some space between himself, Frederica, and Lord Blanden. He had to calm himself, focus on the old prize he sought rather than the new, forbidden one he longed for.

  “As you wish, my lady,” he conceded. But his eyes remained trained upon her brother. This was not over.

  “What do you want, Kirkwood?” Blanden snarled. “You’re the greediest bastard in all London, and everyone knows it. What is it you are after? More coin for your purse?”

  Ah, here it was. The moment of truth.

  He looked back at Frederica’s pale face, taking in her pinched lips, betrayed eyes, and undeniable beauty. One last time, to remember her. How could he forget? And then, he flicked his gaze back to her brother before the urge to grovel at her feet and forego all chances of revenge overcame him.

  “Your father has something I want very much,” he said. “Being a magnanimous man, I am willing to trade him for it—he gives me all the Duke of Amberley’s vowels, and in return, I will keep silent about all the nights I spent alone with Lady Frederica, thoroughly debauching her whilst you and the duke and duchess were blissfully unaware.” He paused, self-loathing threatening to consume him, before he forced himself to say one last, devastating thing. “I will also promise never to reveal to anyone that I took her innocence this evening in this chamber.”

  He did not want to look at Frederica after the final word. But how could he not? Silent tears of betrayal ran down her cheeks. Her gaze was riveted upon him. Shocked. Accusatory. Hurt. He told himself he was doing what he must. Men like him had nothing to offer the sheltered daughter of a duke. And what her father held in his possession was priceless. She had gotten what she wished—her night of passion—and he would gain the Duke of Amberley on his knees.

  The tradeoff was bitter, but it was all he had. All he could have.

  “You are a true bastard,” Blanden snarled.

  Frederica made a sound, as if a sob were trapped in her throat. A knife in his belly, gutting him, would not have hurt more.

  Duncan forced a cool smile to his lips, keeping his eyes trained upon the marquess now, lest he falter. “By nature and definition both, my lord. I shall call upon His Grace tomorrow at three o’clock. I trust you will make certain he is prepared to receive me?”

  “Go to hell, Kirkwood,” the marquess bit out.

  “I will interpret that as acquiescence. There is a discreet rear exit. I will see that Hazlitt escorts you and her ladyship to it, and that your carriage will await you there. Leave this chamber in precisely five minutes and not a moment sooner.” Duncan bowed. “Good evening, my lord. My lady.”

  He fled the chamber to the remembrance of her earlier words, echoing in his mind, mocking him. Haunting him.

  You could never hurt me, Duncan.

  How wrong she had been. How wrong they had both been.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What have you
done, Frederica?”

  She had given herself to a man who had not truly wanted her. That was what she had done. She had fallen in love with a chimera. She had given her heart and her body to him. To a god among men.

  And then the god had turned to stone, proving he was a mere mortal after all. Proving he was not at all who she had thought him to be, but that he was instead a heartless sinner.

  Had everything between them been a lie? Every word, every touch, every tenderness he had shown her? The pleasure? The things he had done to her…had he even enjoyed it, or had he been so determined to gain the Duke of Amberley’s vowels from her father that he had been willing to endure anything?

  Even the shameful attentions of a wanton wallflower.

  How mortifying. Her heart was broken, and her pride was more battered than a bonnet lost in the street, trampled by dozens of carriages and horses before it was retrieved. The muscle in question gave a great, painful pang. More like one thousand carriages, she acknowledged.

  Her pride would heal. Even a trodden bonnet could be restored to rights by a deft hand. But a broken heart? Those were not mended. She had no doubt hers would never be. He had betrayed her, and it was the most painful wound she had ever received. As a girl, she had broken her finger, and that pain had been nothing like this, the awful knowledge he had manipulated and used her to gain what he wanted.

  “How did you know where to find me?” she could not resist asking, even if she feared the response.

  “Hazlitt found me and informed me.” Benedict scowled. “It was all plotted beforehand, of that I have nary a doubt.”

  Was it?

  Duncan had stopped on their way to his chamber, going to Mr. Hazlitt for a hasty, private word. Was that when he had given his instructions? It had to have been. Her heart fell to her feet, and then it fell to the bottom of the deepest pit buried beneath the sea immediately thereafter. It was so far gone, so removed from her body, she would never again be plagued by its disturbing capacity to feel. She was certain of it.